


Dream SMP Titanic AU

by worthlesspool



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1910s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Cruise Ships, Death, Drama, Drowning, Emotional, Explicit Language, Fanfiction, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Natural Disasters, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Other, Pain, RMS Titanic, Sad, Sad Ending, Shipwrecks, Smoking, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Survival, Survival Horror, Third class Titanic, Trauma, Violence, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27548176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worthlesspool/pseuds/worthlesspool
Summary: Four days on the most luxurious ship the world had ever seen...Just three hours to escape the deadly, ice-cold water of the Atlantic.The ship of dreams.But every dream has to end.(Heavily inspired by the film Titanic)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this and probably other stuff for fun because writing essays is killing my creativity  
> That and I love historical fiction. And the Dream SMP.  
> Should update at least once a week.  
> Also please note the dates at the top of the chapters because they jump back and forth in time a bit between the ship sinking and flashbacks to before the ship sank.  
> Enjoy!

“Not even God could sink this ship.”

What a ludicrous proposition. Did whoever spoke those damning words ever consider the fact that God once flooded the entire Earth?

  


  


CHAPTER ONE

  


April 15th, 1912

1:03 AM

  


Life is grimly amusing in the way that it is perceived as a long stretch of suffering with intermittent, often forgettable instances of joy peppered throughout, until one’s last hours, in which everything seems bitterly short.

  


An hour in maths seems an eternity. An hour left to live is the opposite. And for all of that, drowning is the worst way to go.

  


_Well, there’s tuberculosis. That’s probably pretty bad._

  


Thought George as he fought for cold air in the small space above the devouring Atlantic waters which had crashed through the corridors of third class, drowned their red carpet and pressed against the weak interior paneling of strips of wood painted white like it had something to prove beyond drowning hundreds of people in its thalassic rampage. 

  


_There’s knives_ , George pondered. Because he was frozen into shock and could no longer do anything save for panic and ponder, and he did not want to die panicking. _I should count myself lucky I don’t have one of those in me._

  


_No,_ said a more rational, cynical voice which was just as much his as the last one had been, _you’ve got water in you instead and it’s in places it isn’t supposed to be._

  


Two voices. He really was coming undone like wet paper in this… _Water? Oh. I figured that was fire._

  


By the way it burned in his lungs as he hacked it up desperately in the shrinking space between the ceiling and the merciless surface of the ice-cold water, it might as well have been fire. He pressed one hand to the wall and another to the ceiling in an effort to keep his head above the rapidly rising water, but he had to put his neck at an uncomfortable angle to do so, and the constant treading was exhausting him just as quickly as the water was coming up to meet his nose and mouth. 

  


At least going out in an extravagant house fire would have been warm. And beyond physical warmth, his heart would have been warmed by the circumstance of his family home burning to ashes. This water, though, was as cold as ice in the glass of the final drink of a prisoner on death row, it was a teeth-splitting cold, it was as cold as the eyes of the devil, which were blinking into George’s fading vision as if smiling to welcome him into a hell which he deserved to be in because he was still fantasizing about his family home burning down, his father losing his beloved set of crushed, white velvet, Persian-imported furniture, his mother losing her collection of jewelry, her opal earrings, her emerald rings, the rubies father always loved when she wore around her slender, pale neck, her treasured pearls, and their collective dignity. 

  


_Drowning_ , he thought, then snickered as grimly as a drowning man can snicker. Funny it was finally happening to him when he’d just decided he wanted to live. Three days ago he almost threw himself off of the RMS Titanic. He’d wanted to die, then. Obviously. And throwing one’s self off of the top deck of the swankiest ship ever built was a stylish way to die, he’d settled. It didn’t feel so stylish to die in a third class corridor all alone.

  


A small part of him regretted not jumping. Really it would have been like showing up too early to a party, slightly awkward. 

  


At least he would have been at heaven’s gates to politely hold the door for the poor drowned victims who had met his same fate, only they hadn’t done it to themselves. Well… he was a gentleman after all.

  


_You’re not a gentleman anymore_ , said the cynical voice from earlier, _you’ll be a cold, waterlogged corpse soon, and somebody who died a minute ago because they weren’t so stubborn is going to be holding the door for your sopping soul._

  


_My sopping soul. Yes. I’m going to track water into heaven. How embarrassing._

_  
_

_I’m sure they’ll have towels._

_  
_

_You think?_

_  
_

_It’s heaven._

_  
_

_Right._

  


George stole one final breath from the air pocket just before it disappeared. He sank down a foot or two and cast his darkening gaze down either side of the hallway. It was purged a sick shade of sage green by the submerged, flickering lights. There was something uncanny about looking at it underwater in the dark vignette of his fading consciousness. 

He considered the gate which had been closed on him by a crew member just a minute or two ago. He’d tried to tell the man that he belonged to first class, but his voice was lost over the yelling of the other passengers demanding to be let through. They cried that he doomed them, and in their loud cries they doomed George. But he felt sorry for trying to argue the point anyway. 

  


All of the others swam away in their fragile hope of escape while George had lingered at the gate, wondering what had possessed him, ever, to think that he was better than anyone because he was first class, because his parents, who he himself despised deeply for their materialism, had money. 

  


But mostly he thought about Clay. 

  


That was the reason he was down here in the lower decks. It was the reason he had wrenched his wrists out of the grasp of his father, and ran from the voice of his weeping mother, begging him to stay. He hadn’t even offered them an explanation, because even he did not know what he was doing. He had never cared so deeply about a friend as he had cared for Clay, and with Clay he had forged the unlikeliest of a friendship. The best kind. It was in the moment where he was meant to board a life raft with his father after the one with his mother in it was dropped into the sea when he realized it was not really a life raft as much as it was an unbreakable wax seal on the letter of his fate. 

  


He had this terrible suspicion that if he got on that boat, he would never see his best friend ever again.

  


Life is grimly amusing in the way that it is perceived as a long stretch of suffering with intermittent, often forgettable instances of joy peppered throughout, until one’s last hours, in which everything seems bitterly short.

  


George’s eyes fell closed. Hot, salty tears in cold, salty water. 

  


He would never see Clay ever again anyway. 

  


Hellacious anger came to keep George company in his last moments. There was something pleasantly cathartic about dying with thoughts like these;

  


_Stupid fucking ship. Stupid fucking parents. Stupid fucking, short fucking life._

  


Dying swearing. It was better than dying panicking.

  


There was a sound that echoed under the water, the distinct, heavy squeaking of metal and the sound of muted splashing somewhere close by. George wanted to ponder this, he wanted to ponder a great many more things, but he was too tired. 

  


A firm set of hands grabbed George underneath the arms and buried him in a warm body, the body of someone who had been running, scrambling so desperately to get somewhere before… before…

  


The unthinkable happened. Air. Sweet, perfect air. 

  


George came to in a fit of coughing on a half flooded staircase where he had been propped against the wall by a familiar young man. His dark blonde hair was soaked into a dark shade of brown, but his eyes were wider than dinner plates and bore into George’s as they flew open. Like mother’s emeralds, except these emeralds were alive.

  


Clay. He’d somehow got the gate open. George supposed this wasn’t an impossible feat. It was flimsy metal after all, just hard to force open when you were underwater. But somebody who had the leverage of air in the staircase beyond it could kick the lock until it gave, then force it up into its slot and dive through to fish out some poor waterlogged bastard on the other side.

  


“Breath, George! Oh my God.”

  


George had hardly finished hacking his little share of the Atlantic ocean out of his lungs when he fell forward and grabbed the other boy, gripping his drenched shirt on the other side so tightly as if he meant to ring it out. For a moment Clay was surprised, then he returned the embrace. 

  


“We have to go right now,” said Clay urgently as they held one another, “tell me you can walk.”

  


“I’ll do anything to get out of here.”

  


Clay hauled George to his feet and they splashed out of their position on the staircase and trudged up the flooding steps. 

  


“What on Earth were you doing down there?” Clay asked as he dragged George up the stairs. 

  


George, distracted by the gorgeous trim on the wooden railing he was using for support, and what a shame it was this beautiful railing would drown, along with many other beautiful things on the ship, spoke absently, “I was looking for you.”

  


“Funny, I was on the upper decks looking for you. We’re so fucking stupid. But of course we missed one another on the way. It’s absolute chaos up there and it’s getting worse. We don’t have much time.”

  


“Time for what?” George asked. 

  


They had reached the top of the stairs and arrived in a similar-looking corridor, pale paneling on the walls and red carpet. It was covered by a thin film of seawater which soaked into the floor and squished where it was stepped on. The water was rising and it promised another close call. 

  


Still, Clay paused and looked at George as if he himself had not considered the question until it had been posed to him. When he spoke, he sounded determined. Determined not to let the lid close on either of their coffins. Not yet. Not here in the cold Atlantic sea on a ship which could no longer do the most basic thing a ship was meant to do; float.

  


“To find a way off of this God-forsaken ship,” Clay said.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter two!  
> This one is a bit longer.  
> Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

  


April 10th, 1912

9:43 AM

  


_I hope this ship sink_ s, thought George from the back of a black Abbott-Detroit Motor Car as his parent’s hired chauffeur pulled as close as he could to the boarding area. Crowded with other cars and other first-class, snobbish passengers who shuffled their bags out of their trunks with nervous excitement at the prospect of boarding the gigantic ship who’s equally snobbish title was emblazoned in gold letters across its matte black side, regally displayed above hundreds of windows.

  


RMS TITANIC.

  


RMS: Royal Mail Ship. Yes. Perhaps the only reason George wasn’t sprinting from the port, fighting tooth and nail to stay off the ship. The ship carried mail, and in that mail, he’d been told by one of his university professors, a doctor of English, there was a rare book being transported by Oxford from England to New York. A book that George had read excerpts of and quickly become obsessed with. That book, he thought, the prospect of finding it aboard in storage, was the only thing causing George to second-guess this extravagant suicide he had planned.

  


The colossal ship sat in its port in a way that made George want to sneer. If it was a person, it would have had its chest puffed out and its chin tilted up snobbishly. If that weren’t enough, everyone gathered there to board or spectate were staring at it in an awe which George did not think the ship deserved. It was just a boat after all… a big, expensive boat.

  


And according to the papers, not even God could sink it. Surely they shouldn’t have written that in the papers, he thought. That was almost a challenge to God. If George were God, he would sink the thing. He would’ve sank the thing about fifteen minutes ago, actually. 

  


George slid down in his seat with a sigh. There were so many people watching. What was so interesting about boarding a passenger ship?

  


Well, it was the RMS Titanic, and even cynical George had to admit that was notable. The ship was impressive. it was the largest passenger liner afloat.

It had a length of 882 feet, 9 inches, a width of 28 meters, or 91 feet, and it was 53 meters tall, or 174 feet. All ten of its extravagant decks, it’s many windows. It was a skyscraper on the water, as if turned on its wide and made to float and it weighed 46, 328 tons.

  


It’s top speed was 23 knots, which was 26.5 miles an hour. It would cross the cold Atlantic from Southampton, England to New York in a little over a week, but it’s captain was determined to shorten that time if he could. It had engines any other passenger liner would envy, after all. Three massive engines, who’s furnaces burned through 600 tons of coal. 175 fireman tended them by shoveling coal into them. Of its four, towering funnels, only three were actually used.

  


_So?_

_Impressive. Sure. But only a little._

  


The company who built it, Harland and Wolff, were the proudest shipbuilders in the world that day. Later that week, they would be the most ashamed and guilty.

  


“Sit up straight,” his mother barked from beside him as the car rolled to a halt, “you’re wrinkling your shirt.”

  


George considered the shirt. White undershirt, white vest and a white jacket. Oh, and the little gold pin on his chest which his father insisted he wore; a little rabbit, the family crest. White pants, too. All white. He looked ridiculous. The whole outfit deserved to be wrinkled. 

  


His mother adjusted her pink, flowered hat with its wide, half-veiled brim, shot George a look that told him to behave himself, shut up, or both, and slipped delicately out of her seat and through the door opened by a sophisticated looking man wearing blue and gold— the uniform of the crew, to gawk at the ship as George and his father went to oversee the crew take their luggage up the tall, steep ramp that lead to the first class quarters.

  


George’s father slipped their boarding passes to a white-gloved crew member who smiled pleasantly, “enjoy the trip, sir!”

  


“Sure will,” said George’s father.

  


“I hope I don’t get too seasick,” said George’s mother.

  


“Safest, fastest ship there is,” said the crew member, “you’ll travel in style and arrive in New York in no time.”

  


George scoffed.

It earned him two familiar glares.

  


He may well have just handed over their death certificates to be signed.

  


George shook his head dismissively at the sanctimonious exchange and grabbed the last suede case from the trunk of the Abbott-Detroit at the same time a crew member reached for it.

  


“I have it sir,” he said.

  


George narrowed his eyes and without a word he kept his hand firmly grasped on the case’s wooden handle. Eventually the crew member surrendered it to him and wordlessly slipped away. George breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want anyone touching what was in that case; his prized possessions, his writings. Political commentaries, social commentaries, lots of commentaries… and journals of his. Observations of his family’s materialism. His own inner strife. He was going to publish a book about it someday when he was more confident. 

  


In the meantime he wasn’t convinced it would be interesting reading material to anyone.

  


Or, the likelier option, somebody would publish everything he had written after he was dead.

  


He cast his gaze out at the bright blue sky. The small, white disk of the sun unhindered by clouds. It was a nice day to lock one’s self away in a library and pen their own obituary for fun. Or possibly for practical reasons. George hadn’t yet decided if he was going to throw himself off of the Titanic yet, but he’d decide sometime that evening. 

  


On his way up to the steep boarding ramp somebody scrambled past him. Their ankles caught and they both tumbled ungracefully to the ground. George, in an effort not to let his suede case fall out of his grip, he elbowed the man hard in the leg. There was another violent sound, the clinking of musical strings like they had been struck in an chaotic, possibly damaging fashion.

  


“Sorry,” said a pained voice, “sorry!”

  


American. 

  


George got a look at the man as he picked up his suede case. He was taller than George but only by a little. He had dark, anxious eyes which were anxious in a casual sort of way, like he hadn’t had his coffee yet and was stressed about getting where he needed to be in a prompt fashion without knocking anyone else over, and dark brown hair. On his back was a violin case, an embossed leather strap running across his chest which he adjusted as he stood. He was holding a case of his own, of worn-out leather with many exotic stamps on it.

  


“Sorry about that!” the American man said again.

  


“It’s alright,” George said, realizing it was the first time he had spoken that morning. He cleared his throat to purge the sleepiness out of it. “It’s fine. It was my bad, I elbowed you. Is your instrument okay?”

  


“It’s been through worse,” the American said dismissively, “I have to go. Sorry again!”

  


The American scrambled off as quickly as he had come.

  


“Wait, hold on a minute!”

  


He didn’t wait, nor hold on a minute. George watched him go. Scratched the back of his neck. He wouldn’t admit it, but he just sort of wanted somebody other than his parents to talk to.

  


He looked around at all the smiling people. The awestruck people. The smiling and awestruck people watching from beyond. A ship leaving port. A simple thing and that was the headline, and George was trapped between the letters in the print, drowning in a sea of black ink with no way to the surface.

  


_I must be the only passenger on this ship_ , he thought grimly, _that so badly doesn’t want to be here_ , _I’m going to throw myself off night one._

  


_I’ll have dinner first, though. The food on this ship is supposed to be good._

  


—

  


Nick already knew that mortifying interaction would bother him when he tried to sleep that night. 

  


Running into a first class passenger… he should have been more careful! Imagine if it were an older woman with an established attitude for shouting at poor musicians who stepped on her shoes. Fortunately it had been a young man who didn’t seem to subscribe to the wholly snobbish ways of the filthy rich quite yet. 

  


Still, Nick prayed he wouldn’t have to see that man again for the whole voyage.

  


“Hold on a minute,” said a posh, English voice belonging to one of the other musicians at the top of second class boarding ramp as Nick was scrambling up, “you’re that new violinist they hired.”

  


Nick nodded. He didn’t quite trust his voice yet.

  


“Good. Got a name?”

  


“Nick.”

  


“You’re pretty young, Nick.”

  


“Nineteen.”

  


The older man scowled at him, as if this was far too young to play an instrument. Nick considered the man’s large cello case. It had a gold trim around its zipper. He was curious about its make, but wouldn’t ask. He looked the man in his blue eyes. He was British, probably in his early sixties and the sort of man who looked like he played the Sunday crossword puzzles and beat them in record time. In other words, he looked… weathered. Mean. Judgmental.

  


_How would you know?_ Said a rational part of his brain. _You think everyone is judging you all the time!_

  


_Ridiculous_ , Nick thought, because he didn’t have the gumption to say it, _he’s got me beat by forty years, easy._

  


The man seemed to notice his unease, “nervous sailor?”

  


_Nervous sailor?_ Oh! “No!” he said quickly. He immediately wished he had said yes because now it looked like he was nervous about something else that was definitely not worth being nervous about and… just breathe. _Breathe? I’m not talking, he thought quickly, I’m thinking, I don’t need to breathe!_

  


“Get seasick?” the man asked, perplexed.

  


Nick sucked in a breath of air that he did, as it happened, need. “Uh… yeah. Yeah. Like really seasick. I throw up everywhere. Probably best to stay away from me,” he lied.

  


And with that, the conversation was over. Nick breathed a sigh of relief. All he wanted to do was board this ship quietly, drop his luggage in his room and scope out the most private place on the ship so that he could practice his violin without interruption. 

  


He’d only taken this silly job so that he could get back to America. He was lucky he had his violin, because he had no money, no possessions worth a dime and as of recently, nobody he could rely on. He’d left America for the same reason he was leaving England, and a shadowy, introspective part of him which he didn’t want to acknowledge was tormented by this; would history repeat itself over and over? Was he doomed to run from place to place forever, forgiving and cursing his adversarial loved ones?

  


Nick reached into the deep pocket of his long coat and gripped his boarding pass between two fingers which much rather would have been gripping a violin bow in that moment; the boarding pass. It was still there. Not that it would have disappeared from his secure, buttoned pocket. He just had to know it was with him and that a lost boarding pass wouldn’t become a problem. He had enough of those already.

  


_Too much_ , he thought. _It’s all too much. I’m not thinking about it. I can’t._

  


A sudden scuffle in the port below broke him out of his thoughts. Everyone waiting on the second class boarding ramp turned their heads to gawk. Three police officers were chasing after a man in the crowd. Who was avoiding them craftily, Nick had to admit from his convenient top-down view. 

  


“Oh,” said the man, “I hope they don’t catch him.”

  


“Why not?” Nick had to ask.

  


The man shrugged. “A few criminals aboard means some more interesting people. An interesting trip.”

  


Nick adjusted the strap of his violin case on his shoulder. He’d lost track of the guy in the crowd. 

  


_An interesting trip… right._

If only either of them knew how interesting it would become.

  


—

  


It was not the first time Clay had run from the British police, but it was simultaneously the most fun and nerve-wracking of those times. Sure it was fun to leap past old women in the crowd who clutched their pearls at the display and exclaimed dramatically, “oh!” And the children who looked on at him in awe as he sprinted by in a gust of cold air, like they’d like to be running around having just as much fun as he was having. 

  


But for all of that, he found his palms were sweating, and his chest tight with anxiety. There were high stakes, after all. He’d already almost botched this plan of his, albeit it had never been a very good plan in the first place. Most of his plans weren’t good, but somehow they worked out. He prayed this one would work out.

  


What was the plan who’s near-botching warranted a police chase on foot through the port of Southampton? 

  


The forging of a boarding pass.

  


See, white collar crime wasn’t truly crime in Clay’s eyes. A man had to do what he had to do, and if he could do it without hurting anyone, than all the better. Besides, he really needed to get back to America, it was imperative… at least on an interpersonal level. He didn’t even care that he was riding third class— it would still be a luxury on a ship like this one.

  


He spotted it ahead, the crowded ramp that boarded third class passengers. He threw his jacket off in favor of the sage green button-up underneath, abandoning it on the concrete— it was a striking enough change that his assailants would likely miss him at a glance, and that was all he needed. He slipped into the line beside a curly haired man with a knitted hat. He was carrying a luggage case and what looked like guitar. He scanned Clay up and down and then turned his gaze to the trio of police, who were fast approaching. Clay had hoped he wouldn’t be the observant type, those types got him into trouble, especially when paired with the law-abiding types. Clay gripped the man’s sleeve gently and spoke low, “please.”

  


The man nodded. “Officers?” he called out as they approached.

  


Clay hiked up his collar, turned and lowered his head. Tried to do something about his mess of blonde hair which the run had made into a complete disaster.

  


“Seen a man in a brown coat run past here?” one of the officers asked.

  


“Yeah, he went that way,” said the curly-haired man, directing the officer down the port in the opposite direction.

  


“Changing directions, the oldest trick in the book,” the officer muttered, then he cupped his white-gloved hands, shouted and waved wildly, “he’s down this way again, boys!”

  


The officers raced off again. Clay let out a breath like he’d been submerged under water. He rolled his shoulders and hit the English man on the arm, “thanks a lot. Did I miss your name?

  


“Wilbur,” he said.

  


“Clay.”

  


“You’ve got to tell me what they were chasing you for, Clay.”

  


Clay smiled, “you’re going to think I’m cheap.”

  


“Cheap? This is third class. All of us are cheap.”

  


“I forged a boarding pass.”

  


“I see,” said Wilbur, “how did you manage that?”

  


“Friends in high places with questionable morality. One of the higher ups in the crew sold copies of the boarding passes before they were even available to purchase.”

  


Wilbur shrugged, “wish I’d known about that before I paid full price for mine. You’re a bit of a stowaway it seems. Where do you plan on sleeping?”

  


“It’s a big ship,” Clay said, craning his neck to stare up at it. He blinked the mid day sun out of his eyes, “I’ll find a place.”

  


—

  


“This is a terrible idea. I hate boats,” said Tubbo as Tommy dragged him up the ramp just as the doors were closing. Tommy was somehow managing to do this while also carrying all of their luggage, which, admittedly, wasn’t very much.

  


“I mean a card game? A card game!” Tubbo went on.

  


It really had been a funny situation; just a few cards up the sleeve, a few aces back down, well, cheating at cards was easy when your opponents were the kind of men who got drunk before noon. Tommy and Tubbo had gambled all their pocket money right after Tubbo had leaned in to whisper to the other boy, “this is a terrible idea, I hate cards!”

  


Against all odds, they had won two third-class tickets onto the most luxurious ship in the whole world. Or at least that was what Tommy had made everybody think. Tubbo, he figured, knew he had cheated, because Tommy always cheated. See, Tommy didn’t think of it as cheating but rather playing more craftily than most would think to play. To the eye of a casual gambler, Tommy was just obnoxiously good at cards.

  


“Can’t you be grateful for once?” Tommy asked roughly, flashing the impatient crew member standing cross-armed at the door their tickets. He waved them through and slammed it shut behind them. “You already know this is going to be fun.”

  


“Right. Sorry, your definition of fun is escaping me.”

  


“Adventure!” Tommy clarified. “It’s the nicest boat in the world, they’re saying.”

  


“How do I know? I haven’t been reading the papers.”

  


“I’ve been reading them aloud to you!”

  


“I’m supposed to trust you to accurately read the paper to me? One time you told me one of the articles said aliens from outer space arrived to earth and they wanted all the women gathered up so they could take them back to their home planet as trophy wives!”

  


“That was a joke and it only happened one time!”

  


“Twice! This other time you told me it was mermaids from out of the sea who demanded payment for the crossing over of their territory by passenger boats like this, otherwise they would sink them with their sea magic!”

  


Tommy rolled his eyes as they made their way down a long, narrow hallway, paneled with white wood and carpeted a pale red, pushing past other passengers in an attempt to find their rooms— ones which they would likely share with several others, but that wouldn’t bother either of them. They just hoped they weren’t paired with a bunch of elderly men who snored. Tommy did want to sleep at least a few hours in the projected week-long period of their voyage.

  


“New York,” he said, “where the Americans live.”

  


“Oh, can we go to New York City? I think they have really tall buildings and stuff there.”

  


“Sure,” said Tommy, and then, “watch it!” as he was pushed against the wall accidentally by a trio of men walking hastily past.

  


“You watch it!” one of them called back.

  


Tommy smiled. Tubbo gazed down the hallway and swallowed hard.

  


“You know, Tubbo,” said Tommy, “I think I’m really going to like this ship.”

  


  



	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... chapter three!  
> TW, suicide attempt.  
> Anyways, enjoy!!

  


CHAPTER THREE

  


April 10th, 1912

10:43 PM

  


_Right_ , thought George as he stood above the black, foreboding waves of the Atlantic from his precarious position at the bow of the ship, counting his sins, dinner was pretty good. _Time to die._

  


Dinner had been good. Pâté de foie gras, peaches in chartreuse jelly and Waldorf pudding. Some of it had a quirky kind of a taste— a kind he wasn’t sure he liked. No matter. He was a dead man anyway. At least the wine had tasted good. 

  


The wine had been very good. Though George was not drunk, there was a flush on his cheeks. A shame he wouldn’t get to drink like that again. 

  


_No matter._

  


The evening sky was cluttered with bright stars. Some people appreciated the stars, and while George respected them for what they were, big, flaming balls of fire millions of miles from Earth, from him, he thought they got too much attention. They were just little lights, after all. Mankind had made its own lights.

  


_Obsolete. The stars are obsolete. How do you like that, God?_

  


God wasn’t coming to like the Titanic or anyone on it, least of all George. At least that was how it felt. But maybe God, and by extension, life, luck, fate, karma or whatever, had hated George for a long time.

  


_Well_ , he thought at the ugly stars, _you won._

  


He considered the cold waves. He considered the sky. The cold waves again.

  


_This is going to hurt like a bitch._

  


“Hey!” shouted a voice. “It’s a little cold for a swim!”

George did not turn around before he exhaled a long sigh. An American. No. Nobody was going to talk him out of this. Least of all an American.

  


“That’s the whole point you crazy idiot!” George shouted back.

  


“Wait a second, crazy idiot? With all due respect, I’m not the one hanging off of the edge of the ship right now!”

George turned around. His indifferent expression became one of intrigue. The man standing behind him was a spectacle, he had to admit, but not in any obvious way. He was tall, well-built, with dirty blonde hair and emerald green eyes that were striking even in the dark. 

  


Mostly George was confused by the man’s attitude. He wasn’t rushing to yank George from the edge. He didn’t seem panicked or even nervous. He had an unlit cigarette in his hand which he considered, shook his head at and then tucked into his pocket.

  


_You are_ _distracting in the weirdest way_ , thought George. _What is it about you?_

  


The mysterious man looked at George, “if you jump—”

  


“What? Let me guess,” countered George, “you’ll jump in after me—?”

  


“No.” The man said flatly. “I was going to say it would ruin my night seeing some poor guy throw himself off of the ship. You don’t want to ruin my night, do you? What has you so…”

  


He looked George, who’s dark hair was windswept by the sea’s night breeze, clinging to the ice cold metal of the guard rail which he had jumped to the opposite side of. The saddest Hazel eyes anyone ever saw. Eyes that betrayed a deep loneliness.

  


“…down?”

  


_Down?! That was all the man could come up with?_

  


George narrowed his eyes again and turned them back to the dark sea. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  


“Well,” said the man casually, “the difference between me and the deadly, sub-freezing Atlantic ocean—”

George’s breath caught.

  


“—is that I’ll listen to you.”

  


George looked at the sea. Cold, dark, and almost vacant. He might as well have been looking at his parents. At anyone. George couldn’t remember the last time someone offered to listen to him in such a sincere way.

  


“My family,” he said after a long moment. “Especially my father…” George found that once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. Everything came rushing up in an angry rant, “he has this idea that I have to get married and study to become a doctor. The only doctor I want to be is a doctor of English! And as far as marriage goes, my father wants me to tie up the family with a pretty, well-to-do woman. I don’t even know the first thing about women! Let alone pretty, well-to-do ones! The only thing I have wanted to tie up as of late has been my own neck—!”

George slipped. It seemed he had underestimated how strong his grip was on the guard rail. The cold metal was slick with sea air.

  


The man rushed forward and grabbed him by the back of his shirt. 

Strong arms held him. Keeping him from falling or jumping.

  


“They’re killing me,” George said, looking back.

  


His eyes were locked on the stranger’s.

  


“Well that water is going to kill you a lot faster and more painfully!”

  


George shrugged, “more painfully is debatable.”

  


The man tightened his grip as George slipped further.

  


“You don’t actually want this!” he said, “trust me!”

  


George looked down at the churning sea. He looked into the man’s green eyes. They were so alive. So concerned. Almost like he cared.

But that was impossible. He didn’t even know George. How was it that this man cared so much? 

  


Why did he care so much?

  


It was a reach, but it became a reason. It was a stretch, but it was the extra bit that kept him from letting go, releasing his grip on the man’s vest and falling into the sea. Maybe there were people left in the world who were worth sticking around for. Maybe.

  


But mostly he realized that jumping was irreversible, and if he truly wanted it, he had to be sure. He wasn’t sure now. Not by a long shot.

Fear gripped George. Now that he no longer wanted to die, hanging off of the side of the ship was, as it happened, fucking terrifying.

  


“You’re damn right I don’t want this!” he shouted, “what was I thinking? Get me away from this edge! Now!”

  


What followed probably sounded like a loud scuffle to the crew member rushing unto the deck. George’s foot was on the guard rail, the stranger yanking him forward to ensure he wouldn’t fall backward. George swore, the man tried to catch him, but his foot slipped on sea spray. The stranger awkwardly fumbled, and just as the crew member coming to investigate the noise reached them, they had both fallen on top of one another and stared dazedly up at him.

  


“What’s going on here?” the crew member asked, sounding less suspicious of nefarious intent and more embarrassed about what he might have interrupted. George’s face burned. He opened his mouth to explain, but the stranger interrupted him.

  


“Nothing nefarious!” he said, “we were just… chatting about marriage!”

  


You bastard, George thought, you know how that must sound!

  


“Right…” George continued, “and I slipped!”

  


“Alright,” said the crew member, turning on his heel. As he walked away he muttered, “odd pair.”

George looked down at the stranger.

  


“I’m Clay.”

“George.”

  


“Get off me, George.”

  


George scrambled away. Clay stood and smiled at him.

  


“You’re welcome.”

  


“Thanks,” George said flatly, and stood, dusting himself off. “I uh… I um…”

“You don’t need to say anything else,” Clay said. “I’m just really glad you’re off of that edge. That was kinda dramatic. You okay now? Maybe you should go and see someone about all of this—”

  


George wasn’t sure. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage and his stomach was in knots. He tried to find his voice, struggling to speak. When he finally did speak, he was surprised how calm he sounded, how truthful he felt.

“I think I’m okay. Really. Thanks again.”

  


Clay smiled. “Glad I could help. Have a good night, then.”

  


He went to leave.

  


_No._ George thought. _Don’t leave._

  


“Wait!”

Clay turned around. He actually waited. 

  


But George didn’t know what to say. He always wanted company, friends, but he never knew what to say when he had it.

  


“Can I do anything to repay you?” he finally asked.

Clay shrugged. “You don’t need to repay me. Maybe I’ll see you around, though?”

  


He turned to leave again.

  


_Maybe I’ll see you around? That’s not good enough for me. I need to be sure I'll actually get a chance to talk to you again._

  


“Dinner!” George blurted. 

  


“Huh?”

  


“I’m in first class and I—”

  


“I can tell.”

  


George looked down at his clothes. The white get-up he hated so much. He looked back up at Clay, who was dressed in a sage green shirt with a simple vest thrown over it for warmth. He gathered his thoughts.

  


“You could come to dinner tomorrow night! I’m allowed to bring guests.”

  


Clay raised an eyebrow. The wind played with his dark blonde hair. He seemed like such a good person. Anyone who would save someone from jumping to their death and not ask for anything in return was worth being friends with, but George was sure he was already scaring him away. 

  


George scratched the back of his neck, “if you don’t want to—I don’t want to be pushy, that’s all.”

  


“I want to. I just don’t want you to think you owe me anything. I can’t come to dinner in first class, though,” Clay explained, looking away, “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  


“You don’t?” George asked, genuinely confused. He didn’t have very many friends at all, but the ones he did have had never had a problem finding something to wear to dinner. But of course Clay would have this problem. George’s face burned. 

_Agh! Of course. Why did I even ask?_ He thought to himself.

  


_Because you want to get to know him, that’s why_ , said a rational voice in his head.

  


_He probably thinks I’m crazy._

  


_Maybe he likes you._

  


George didn’t mind the rational voice in his head sometimes.

  


Clay seemed a little embarrassed, but he shrugged. He spoke like what he was saying wasn’t crazy, “I came on this ship with the clothes on my back and that’s about it. I’m out here on deck because I had nothing better to do. Plus, I’m kind of a night owl. Glad I was here when I was, though.”

  


“I’ll loan you some clothes!” he blurted, and then sort of half-covered his mouth with his hand in surprise. 

  


Clay looked down at George. “Yeah… I appreciate that but I don’t think we’re the same size.”

  


George thought about this considerable height difference, “no, but I think my father has a few things that may fit you. I’m sure he’ll let you borrow them for one night—”

  


Clay thought about this, and then wheezed, “I can’t believe I’m going to eat dinner with a bunch of snobby people from first class!”

  


George laughed, too. Clay’s laugh was pretty contagious. “How do you think I feel? I have to eat dinner with them every night! Meet me on deck tomorrow at three.”

  


George cast his gaze out at the sea again. It shimmered under those stars. 

  


_Maybe things are getting better._

  


_Maybe this ship isn’t so bad after all._

  


It was the RMS Titanic. The ship of dreams.

  


But dreams had to end.

  


Eventually, everybody had to wake up.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me thinking this chapter was too angsty to post omg...  
> Also I would like to come up with a more creative title than what the current one is but part of me doesn't wanna change the title at this point... hmm I'll have a think.  
> Also finals are almost over so updates should get more frequent.  
> Anyways I hope you enjoy!

“We’re going to find a way off of this ship. I promise.”

Tubbo did not know if this was a promise Tommy could actually keep,

  


CHAPTER FOUR

  


April 15th, 1912

12:30 AM

  


_Great._

  


Thought Tommy. Or he might have said it aloud. He might have shouted it for all he knew.

  


Well, there was nothing even remotely ‘ _great_ ’ about his current predicament. 

  


He was on the lowest deck of the ship trapped in a small, third-class lounge, handcuffed to a metal pipe painted over white while water rushed in from every conceivable place it could possibly rush in from in the room. 

  


The paneled walls were creaking with the effort of keeping the Atlantic at bay, and the floor was already covered by what Tommy estimated was a foot of deadly, ice-cold water. The pair of sage-green velvet lounge chairs were already floating, their value, because every piece of furniture on Titanic was of exorbitantly high value, was already diminishing as their cushions were soaked through to the wood by the uncaring sea.

  


A sea which, as it happened, cared about as much for these expensive chairs as it did for Tommy.

  


He had worked the cuffs up the pipe and found himself a position where he could temporarily avoid the water. He was crouching on a round wooden table, staring not at the water rising at a frightening pace below him, but around the room, looking for something, anything he could grab to wedge in the lock to free himself. Something sharp, something with a flat end. Something to pick this bastard lock around his wrists. But he was coming to realize his hopes for escape were sinking as fast as the ship was. Pretty damn fast.

  


“I don’t want to die here,” he told the handcuffs, as if it were possible they would feel empathy for him and unlock themselves. 

  


“I’m too young.”

  


The water rose a foot.

  


“People might miss me.”

  


It rose another foot. 

  


The table he was crouching on? It was not going to be a safe harbor for much longer. 

  


“Damn these cuffs… help! Anybody there? Help!”

  


It was after that second call for help that all of the lights went out. Tommy blinked hard, forcing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Though it was terrifying to be consumed by rising water, it was even more terrifying to be consumed by rising water in the dark… _something_ could be swimming in it.

  


A younger Tommy may have feared sea monsters or sharks. There was probably a small child fearing that same thing somewhere on that ship.

  


But what Tommy feared was not a creature but a cold, drowned corpse, a few of which he had already seen float passed in the hallway beyond the lounge. 

  


Was that going to be his fate soon?

  


The answer? Probably, yeah, like… definitely yeah. _Shit._

  


That was terrifying for several reasons, but the main reason was because Tommy had not been a very good person as of late. Stealing, cheating at cards, drinking and smoking, that was all one thing. It had been what he had last said to poor Tubbo that made him feel so utterly angry with himself. He didn’t even really care if he died all that much any longer, he just wanted so badly to apologize it was going to destroy him.

  


“This is my fault,” he said to the handcuffs. 

  


The handcuffs, if they could speak, would have said something like; _duh._

  


It had been a first class passenger along with a crew member who had locked him down there. Tubbo had told him not to try and steal that pair of diamond earrings. Didn’t Tubbo understand that Tommy only wanted to take care of the two of them when they got to America? It’s not like Tommy was going to get a real job. He was so above that… it was so much easier to just steal. Brought him so much more satisfaction.

  


At least he had thought so.

  


_“You don’t understand anything,” he had told Tubbo._

_  
_

_“I understand! I just don’t like it!”_

_  
_

_“You’re useless, then.”_

  


_Dead weight. That’s all he is. Clingy dead weight._

  


Tommy wiped his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt. He didn’t know why he bothered. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his blonde hair was a mess of damp curls, salty from the sea water. 

  


Oh, and he was surrounded by the ocean for god’s sake.

  


So he cried some more.

  


He only quit when the water reached him. Stingingly cold. He had known it was going to be cold, but not that cold. It was so cold it should have been frozen or something, surely.

  


“Ow, what the fuck!”

  


He stood up on the table and yanked his cuffs against the metal pipe. _Clang. Clang. Clang._ Metal on metal. Like an animal in a cage. A desperate, futile attempt at escape. Reverberated through the half-flooded room and halls beyond like the sharp cracks of a gunshot.

  


“Break you—” he didn’t even have the energy to come up with some creative insult for a metal pipe and some cuffs that incorporated a swear, “you useless thing!”

  


_What’s useless, Tommy?_ Said a soft voice in his head. 

  


Strangely, it was Wilbur’s. He’d been that slightly-strict mediator between him and Tubbo as of late. As horrible as the thought was, thinking of Wilbur comforted him a little.

  


_The metal handcuffs?_

  


_Clang._

_  
_

_The pipe?_

  


_Clang._

_  
_

_Tubbo?_

  


_Me?_

  


Tommy stopped.

  


The water was at his waist. He leaned against the pipe, eyes squeezed close against the icy cold. The lights flickered violently. Each time they returned, they returned dimmer, bathing the flooded room in sick shade of sage green. 

  


_Or is it you, Tommy?_

It was so cold. He could barely think anymore.

  


Tommy exhaled, expecting a cloud to form in front of his face like it did outside in the wintertime. This did not happen. The ship’s coal-burning engines still retained some heat inside the vessel. It was a weird feeling to be half-submerged in water so cold it felt like there were needles in your skin, but relatively warm where you were dry. 

  


Once, back home, Tommy and Tubbo had been playing on a frozen lake and the ice had broken underneath Tubbo. It hadn’t been all that dramatic, but Tubbo had explained later that the water was so cold it almost felt hot, and Tommy had never understood that. Now he did. The Atlantic ocean in April was so cold it fried your nerves. After a minute, you would think you were submerged in boiling water.

  


The water was rising fast, but also somehow excruciatingly slow, too.

  


“I’m so sorry, Tubbo.”

  


Some more futile struggling later, he was underneath the water’s surface as the room was entirely filled. He stole one breath from the pocket of air at the room's ceiling as it disappeared. He opened his eyes under the water. All the furniture in the room was floating around still. The lights came in and out, dimmer each time. He wasn’t cold anymore, just tired. He closed his eyes.

  


Drowning, though, was not as quick and straightforward as he thought it would be. It was a choking, desperate feeling, and all he could think about was air. How much everything hurt. How everything was going so dark.

  


_I’m so sorry._

  


“Tommy!”

  


Tommy’s eyes flew open. He knew this voice. It belonged to Wilbur. It could not be real. It was just his thoughts again. _Useless._

  


But there was something so real about it. Like it came from the hallway beyond and had a desperation in it that was so genuine, Tommy’s imagination couldn’t make it up.

  


_What’s useless, Tommy?_

There was splashing, two figures dove into the room and swam through the narrow doorway, navigating through floating furniture. Tommy stared up at them with fading vision. Somebody grabbed him around the torso, somebody yanked the cuffs on his wrists. There was a metallic clicking sound. 

  


_The metal handcuffs?_

  


They slipped off of his wrists and sank like a stone, clanking against the hard floor. Producing a muted sound, like a stone tossed into a bathtub.

  


_The pipe?_

  


The pipe’s blurry shape was receding from his vision as he was pulled away, back through the doorway the figures had come from. 

  


Air. The ceiling in the hallway was higher than the ceiling in the lounge had been, there was a pocket of air which spanned several feet between the surface of the frigid water and the ceiling. It didn't even matter that Tommy could barely get any of it into his lungs. Just the feeling of his head being above water was a huge relief. 

  


Sweeter than the air were the voices.

  


“Tommy! Say something! Wilbur, he’s not talking!” said a voice so close it felt like it was right beside his ear.

  


From a little further away came the second voice, “give him a second, Tubbo, just keep swimming, we have to get to this exit so we can go back up the stairs.”

_Tubbo?_

  


“But Wilbur!”

  


_Tubbo._

  


“Is he breathing, Tubbo?”

  


_Wilbur._

  


“Unfortunately, yeah—”

_Hey!_ Tommy thought.

  


“—I think?”

  


“Shit… Just hurry!”

_Or is it you, Tommy?_

  


The next thing Tommy could recall he was laying on his side in the second class dining saloon, who’s floor was flooded only about an inch or so, beside a grand piano which was doomed to be waterlogged as Tommy had almost been. 

  


Somebody turned him on his back. His eyes flew open. Staring down at him were the two familiar faces of Tubbo and Wilbur. 

  


They didn’t look as concerned as Tommy would have liked them to as he coughed up all that water, they just sort of looked annoyed. Like they were mad at him. Waiting tiredly for him to either cough up the rest of the water or stop breathing entirely. They had swum all that way to rescue him, they didn’t really care at that point what happened anymore, they were too exhausted.

  


_I’m alive,_ thought Tommy.

  


_I guess that means I’m going to have to apologize to some people._

_  
_

_Shit._

  


Tommy wiped his eyes and sat up. He looked at Tubbo, who seemed to be trying to hide his relief. The other boy sighed and smiled slightly. 

"Feeling better?"

  


“You didn’t give me mouth to mouth or anything, did you?” Tommy asked.

“No,” Tubbo replied.

  


“Good. That would have been gross.”

Tubbo smiled happily, “Wilbur did!”

  


“Agh, God, gross! He’s an old man!”

  


“I’m twenty four!”

  


Tubbo laughed. “I think he’s okay, Wil.”

  


“How did you get the cuffs off?” Tommy asked. 

“Key!” said Tubbo. “I took it off the crew member who locked you up. We had to track him down, that’s what took us so long. I couldn’t remember if it was the bloke with the crooked nose who locked you down there or if it was the other guy…”

“I almost died because you couldn’t remember if the officer had a crooked nose or not?” Tommy exclaimed.

  


“Yep. Sorry about that,” said Tubbo, not sounding very sorry.

Wilbur crossed his arms and raised an accusatory eyebrow at Tommy. “Do you have something you want to say to Tubbo?”

  


“Aside from that you’re an old man and you,” he said to Tubbo, “are clingy? I don’t think so.”

  


“Tommy!”

  


“Isn’t the ship sinking? We don’t have time to get into this—”

“Tommy!” Wilbur said, “apologize to Tubbo for God’s sake!”

  


Tommy smiled and looked at Tubbo, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. He realized how serious all of it was. In his brush with death he had momentarily forgotten the anger he had felt when the water was rising, when everything was going cold. He wasn’t angry because he was dying, but because he wouldn’t get to see Tubbo again, would never get to tell him that he meant everything to him.

  


“You know you’re not useless.”

  


Tubbo looked harshly at him, “do I? Would it be so crazy if I thought I was?”

  


“I’m the useless one. You’re… you’re kind and funny and wonderful and I can’t really think of any other word that describes you less than the word useless. You are a bit clingy, though—”

  


Tubbo leapt forward and wrapped his arms around the other boy. Tommy returned the embrace, but when he saw Wilbur’s smug smile, he got a little embarrassed.

  


“Okay, okay, get off!” he said. Tubbo did not.

  


“I’ll hug you as long as I want!”

  


Tommy laughed, “come on, you’re acting like a woman!”

  


Tubbo squeezed him tighter, “don’t care.”

  


When they parted Tubbo caught one of Tommy’s wrists and inspected the bruises. Tommy’s first instinct was to immediately wrench his hand away, but for some reason, he didn’t.

  


“You tried really hard to escape on your own," Tubbo said softly.

  


“Yeah, in hindsight I should have known the cuffs wouldn’t break— I was just… I wanted to see you again. But I didn’t think anyone was coming and the lights kept going on and off—”

  


Tubbo looked up at him, a look that silenced him.

  


“Was it scary?”

  


“Uh, yeah? A bit, Tubbo,” he said sarcastically, “what the fuck kind of question—?”

  


“Boys,” said Wilbur suddenly, “I hate to the ruin the moment, but if we don’t find a way off of this ship I think all of this might have been for nothing.”

  


“I don’t want to drown… anything else. Any other kind of death. I just don’t want to drown,” said Tubbo, sounding frightened. 

  


“We are on a sinking ship so… it’s either that or you freeze to death,” said Wilbur as they stood.

  


Tommy shot Wilbur a disapproving look and then put a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, “you’re not dying. Not until you’re an old man like Wilbur.”

“Tommy, quit it with the old man thing, I’m twenty-four—!”

  


“We’re going to find a way off of this ship. I promise.”

  


Tubbo did not know if this was a promise Tommy could actually keep, but it was spoken like Tommy would rather die than see it broken. 

  


So for the time being, all Tubbo could do was trust him, trust Wilbur, and run like hell from the rising water.

  


“Alright,” said Tubbo, “let’s go.”

  


  


  


  



	5. CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

  


April 10th, 1912

5:32 PM

  


Just when Tubbo thought Tommy had gone too far with his little thefts, his friend went further. 

  


This time it was the pockets of a third-class passenger with a guitar. The pockets which Tommy found to be empty save for some lint.

  


“Why did you try and rob me! Do I even look like I have money?” the man demanded, guitar strings singing a tuneless song in protest at being set down too hard on the floor of the empty lounge. 

  


Tubbo shrugged, coming around the corner where he’d been hiding because Tommy had been caught anyway, “no? No offense!”

  


“If you’re going to rob someone why don’t you rob someone from first class?”

Tommy thought about this, “that’s not a bad idea…”

  


“Don’t give him ideas you— what was your name?” Tubbo asked, talking quickly and breathlessly.

  


“Wilbur,” said the man, pushing an unruly lock of curly brown hair out of his eyes. Tubbo considered the man. His eyes were a kind of coffee color. Tubbo hated coffee. But maybe he would like it if somebody took this man’s eyes and made them into a cup of coffee.

  


_Gee, that sounds stupid._ Tubbo thought to himself. 

What he’d meant was that the man’s eyes were sweet, not bitter like some of the people he’d known. 

Most of the people he’d known. He thought Wilbur couldn’t ever be truly mad at anyone. His soft coffee eyes were a cup of coffee somebody like Tubbo, who hated coffee, may actually consider drinking. As weird as it sounded, it was true.

  


“Yours?” asked Wilbur.

  


Tommy interrupted Tubbo and said to Wilbur, “in all fairness, I thought you would be an easy target because you were drunk.”

  


“I am not drunk!”

  


“Well it’s just when you were singing you sounded… you know what? Never mind.”

  


“No,” shouted Wilbur, “say it!”

  


Tommy shrugged.

  


“You thought I sounded drunk while I was singing? What’s wrong with your ears?” Wilbur exclaimed, leaning forward, his guitar strings rustled as he grabbed it by the neck and made a few muted, discordant notes, as if they were just as shocked and offended as Wilbur was.

  


Tubbo nudged Tommy, “yeah, Tommy, I thought he sounded pretty okay.”

  


“Thank you— your name?” Wilbur asked.

  


“Tubbo.”

  


“Tubbo. You need better friends or something, Tubbo.”

  


Tommy gaped. Tubbo looked between him and Wilbur, like the two of them were expecting him to choose sides.

  


“No, Tommy’s alright he’s got… some redeemable qualities. I think…”

  


Tommy scowled at Tubbo, “some redeemable qualities?”

  


“I said I think, I don’t know!”

  


“Boys!” said Wilbur sternly enough to shut the two of them up momentarily. He looked them over, surprised, “you can’t be older than sixteen or something, where are your parents?”

  


Tommy and Tubbo exchanged a glance. 

  


Tubbo shrugged, “mine are back home in England I guess. Tommy’s are, too—”

  


“Tubbo!”

  


“What?”

  


“Remember what we said?” Tommy whispered harshly to him, “if anybody asked, we were brothers! It’s our cover story!”

  


“Oh! Right!” said Tubbo. “Cover story? Cover for what?”

“You know,” said Tommy, struggling to respond, “cover!”

  


Tubbo did not know and he believed that Tommy didn’t actually know either.

  


He returned his gaze to the sideways gaze of Wilbur, who was looking at the two boys like he could not believe the two of them actually existed. 

  


Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was dreaming them, because this whole situation, Wilbur thought, was just too ridiculous to actually be happening. 

  


These children, one of which had just tried to pickpocket him while he played his guitar in a secluded smoking room on one of the lowest decks on the ship, were the strangest pair of kids he had ever met.

  


“We’re brothers!” Tubbo said abruptly.

  


Wilbur put a hand to his forehead and sighed in exasperation. 

  


Wilbur pulled himself together. He picked at his cuticles dismissively while Tubbo squirmed nervously. After a minute he said sarcastically, “yeah, and I’m brothers with this guitar.”

  


“Really?” asked Tommy.

  


“Is that anatomically possible?” Tubbo asked skeptically. 

  


“I’m joking! You two are unbelievable!” Wilbur rubbed his eyes, “how did you even end up on this ship?”

“Oh, Tommy cheated— I mean…”

Now Tommy was the one sighing in exasperation. 

  


“What kind of game? Tag? Hide and seek?”

“No!” said Tubbo, and the admitted, “it was a card game.”

  


“You cheat at a card game,” repeated Wilbur, trying to understand, “and won two boarding passes for the grandest ship ever built and the first night of the trip you try and pick somebody’s pockets? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you just enjoy the ride and mind your own business?”

“What business?” Tommy asked harshly, “our game of tag? Hide and seek? Look, Wilbur, you seem nice and all but I don’t think you understand the situation.”

Wilbur stood. Tubbo’s jaw fell open. He was so tall… Tubbo had read something, or rather Tommy had read something to Tubbo, about polar bears being almost eight feet tall when they stood up on their back legs, frighteningly tall. This reminded him of Wilbur. You wouldn’t think it when he was sitting down. Even Tommy looked momentarily stunned. 

  


“I understand,” said Wilbur, “that what I should probably do is report you to a crew member so you can be locked up the rest of the trip and not bother anybody else!”

  


Tubbo’s hand flew over his face. 

  


“Not you, Tubbo,” Wilbur assured him. Tubbo sighed in relief. Tommy smacked him on the arm.

“Ow! What? You’re the one who tried to steal from him!”

  


“You’re my partner in crime,” explained Tommy, “you can’t just throw me under the trolley!”

  


Tubbo waved a hand dismissively.

  


“Relax. I’m not going to tell on either of you. If you can make a promise.”

  


Tommy and Tubbo looked at one another.

  


“No more stealing!”

  


Wilbur stood, gathered his guitar.

  


“Where are you going?” asked Tubbo.

  


“To find a place to play my guitar where some children will not interrupt me.”

—

  


Nick finally had just found a secret place to practice when he was interrupted by another person coming into the room to interrupt him.

  


He’d been playing a song in a minor key, rosin spilling off of the bow, creating an opaque cloud of white dust around him, settling on furniture. He paused to gaze at it, marveled at its… fragility. 

  


The notes stopped. The silence was louder than the music. His mind was starving for a release of the minor key. 

  


A major lift, something to bring him back from this… _l'appel du vide_. Like he was standing on the edge of some great, dark chasm from which a dark, deep note was resonating. 

  


A violin. The chord progression of his long abandoned song. He felt like throwing himself into it…

  


He considered the stamped boarding pass, now crumpled from being in his pocket for a whole day.

  


_I can’t do this for very much longer…_

_  
_

_I can’t keep fighting with myself—_

A dark shape in the warped glass beside the door startled him, and the door flew open. A man with curly brown hair and kind eyes.

  


“Oh, hello,” he said. Nick looked him up and down, quietly. He was dressed… casually. If he was being polite. He was obviously in third class. A contrast to Nick’s outfit, a pressed suit.

  


“Sorry,” continued the man, “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  


“It’s fine,” said Nick, who returned his violin to his shoulder and bounced the bow on the strings. 

  


“Are you part of the entertainment?” the man asked.

  


Nick paused again. He expected him to leave, not continue talking.

  


“Mind if I hide out in here for a bit? There’s these kids that tried to mug me—”

  


“What?”

  


The man laughed, “I’m Wilbur by the way.”

  


Nick’s mouth felt dry.

  


“You’re supposed to introduce yourself.”

  


Nick didn’t want to. He resumed his unfinished song, jumping into the chasm. The curly haired man with the guitar just slipped into a chair casually and listened. 

  


  



End file.
